


Bedside manner

by bigwinged (Megaptera)



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Anti-synth bigotry, Awkward platonic hurt/comfort, Gen, Nicky gets whumped, Puns involving rubber cement, Sturges gets thrown in off the deep end, mild robot gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 07:57:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7968637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megaptera/pseuds/bigwinged
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dammit, Sturges is an engineer, not a doctor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedside manner

Sturges has worked on a lot of crazy machines in his time, but this sure takes the cake. Most of them don’t _talk back._

Yeah, robots yammer at you, mostly small talk and nonsense unless they’re in for repairs and giving diagnostic data. Valentine staggers into the garage on the General’s arm, sinks to the floor with his back against one of the roof pillars, and mutters “I’m kinda behind the eight-ball here, Doc,” which is about as vague as diagnostics get.

His shirt and coat are soaked through with iridescent fluid down his right side. Sturges slams the damaged turret’s access panel shut, slides down the ladder from the roof, and drops down beside Valentine to survey the damage. An unfamiliar voice, probably one of the traders huddled behind the defenses in the growing dusk, grumbles a little too loudly: “They’re down a gun, there might be more raiders out there, and he’s gonna fix a busted-up _synth_ instead?”

The General freezes. Sturges smirks as he lifts Valentine’s shirt away from the damaged paneling. Another voice drifts from the back garden, like a tumbleweed across a dueling ground: “Ooooh, sh – _shazam_.”

The General pats Valentine’s shoulder, then stalks out into the open air. Valentine can’t blush but his rubber face clearly betrays his desire to sink into the floor and vanish. The General’s voice floats back to them, dead-calm and quiet, interspersed with the trader’s, stammering and apologetic.

“Hoo boy, is she _pissed_ ,” Sturges observes gleefully, while he runs probing fingers along the edges of the damaged panel. “Just how the hell do you open up?”

“I don’t think that side’s ever been – _oof,”_ Valentine grunts, as Sturges hooks a finger into a bullet hole and gives an experimental tug.

“Shit, you can feel all of this, huh?”

“Always hoped I’d get to meet the character who had that bright idea…” His voice is slurred and his movements sluggish as coolant continues to escape and his internal temperature creeps upwards. He is, as he says, behind the eight-ball, and Sturges doesn’t have a lot of time to mess around.

Sturges yanks a crate of junk from the bottom shelf of the cabinet and tips it onto the floor. Wonderglue, duct tape, silicone tubing, check. Back to the cabinet for the last bottle of coolant. Hot knife from the pegboard, extra blades from the cigar box behind the doghouse. He knows where everything is, he has a _system_.

Gunfire starts up again, to the north this time. Sturges fits a short blade onto the hot knife and fires it up. “Hold still, this is probably gonna sting.” Without any further warning he shoves the blade between the sealed plates and drags it along the seam. Valentine doesn’t make a peep but he leans back against the pillar, his jaw clenched and his heels scuffing against the broken concrete floor.

* * *

Sturges sits back on his heels and peels off his work gloves. “Okay, this isn’t the most comfortable post-op situation, but your innards are held together with duct tape until the rubber cement cures, so you need to sit really still right there for the next few hours.”

Valentine slumps against the pillar, weary but good as new (or at least good as yesterday), and his amber eyes are bright and lucid now that he’s got a full tank of coolant and isn’t leaking it all over Sanctuary. “No arguments here.”

When it rains, it pours; and when it stops, it stops. The gunfire has been quiet for a good half hour. There’s still work to be done, but with any luck it’s not urgent now. Sturges jerks a thumb upwards. “I’ll be up top trying to get the big gun running, so if you need anything just holler.”

“Well, thanks for prioritizing me over your other patient,” Valentine drawls.

“You’ve _met_ Glory, right? Shit, she’d kick my ass all the way to the Capital Wasteland if I let anything happen to a synth around here.”

He says it with a grin, but Valentine winces and looks away.

“Aww, don’t be like that. I’m teasing you. Look, I’m a machines guy. I never thought I’d be working on _people_ , is all.” He gets up and wipes his hands on a rag, and heads back up the ladder. “ _People_ take priority over equipment, got that?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Doc.”

“Anytime.” He hopes he’s driven the point home hard enough. He’s elbows-deep in the gun turret again before the full import of it hits _him._ His hands start to shake, and he has to go sit down on the south gable for some fresh air and a smoke before he can get anything else done.

* * *

By midnight the patrols have satisfied themselves that there aren’t any more raiders lurking in the shadows outside town. The General has been back to check on Valentine and reassure herself that all is well. A few of the traders and recently-acquired neighbours have gathered around the firepit, and their chatter, while hushed, is tentatively jubilant.

Valentine idly watches the growing party from across the yard, and when he catches Sturges’ eye through a hole in the roof, he says, “Can I get out of here? I can’t smell the volatiles anymore.”

“If you can’t smell ‘em, that means you’re _cured_.”

“Ouch,” Valentine groans as he gets to his feet. “How long have you been sitting on that one?”

“Only about ten minutes.”

He mutters his thanks again, and slinks out into the night with his hat angled downwards to shield his eyes. He doesn’t head for the campfire, but instead makes his way out to the end of the road and the guard tower.

Sturges powers up the gun and comes back down from the roof, and meets Marcy Long coming back from the guard post, shucking off her armor. They join the party; Marcy sits on a log at the edge of the group and leans her head on her husband’s shoulder, and Sturges finds his way to the beer.

Eventually he decides that sleep would be a good idea, so he says his goodnights and goes back to the garage. With the lights out, from where he stretches out on the sofa by the big picture window, he can just see the glow of yellow eyes and a red cigarette cherry at the guard post.

He doesn’t wake up until noon, and by then the General and her detachment are long gone, and Valentine with them.

* * *

Two weeks later, a caravan arrives from Diamond City. A courier has a word with Preston, who points her to the garage.

“Doc Sturges, Sanctuary Hills?” she asks, reading from the label of something tucked in her shoulder bag.

“That’s me. What can I do you for?”

“Wish I had friends like yours,” she smirks, and hands over a fifth of three-hundred-year-old Tennessee whiskey.


End file.
